


Bringing Back the Sun

by Marsmiims



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual Friendship, Gen, Mentions of Greek Mythology, Mentions of Roman mythology, No Romance, Norns - Freeform, References to Norse Mythology, Tags to be added, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15201941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marsmiims/pseuds/Marsmiims
Summary: Atreus finds himself on a journey to Hel to bring back someone he is sure he does not like.  With only a talking head, a foreign witch and the-still-insane formerly dead Baldur for company, what's a kid to do?  Based loosely on norse mythology.





	1. Do all Witches Heal Animals?

**Author's Note:**

> I really like mythology, so I wanted to try and see if we could blend these stories even more. I will add notes about the characters as I introduce them. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think.

Atreus claps his hands together to try to get some warmth back into them. He and his father hunt stag, but his fingers are so cold that he is having trouble drawing his bow. Kratos stands farther up the hill. Odd, the dog, circles his feet. 

Atreus scuffs the ground with his booted foot. Looks like they were going to go hungry again. Great.

Snow crunches under his feet. And then snow crunches farther away. Remembering his training, he crouches down and moves north, around the crest of the hill from his father, and begins to look for signs. Trampled snow, bark gouged out from trees, and there it is, the hoof print. 

It’s a boar, and it’s not far.

Atreus crouches down, makes sure he is downwind from the direction he thinks the animal is in and creeps forward. 

There it is. It’s big, brown and no sign of being enchanted at all. 

Atreus finds and arrow, draws his bow and waits until the boar moves into a better position. He has to do this right, boars are notoriously difficult to hunt, and if he isn’t careful, he could be hurt, or worse, it might hurt someone else.

Over the crest of the hill his father shouts his name, “Atreus!”

The boar perks its ears up, and snorts.

Atreus, seeing an opportunity, let’s the arrow fly. It finds it mark, but it does not bring the boar down. Instead the animal leaps foreword towards his father. 

“No! Father, wait!”

“Atreus!”

“There is boar, it’s coming towards you!” Atreus hates the way his voice rises at the end, but no. He knows his father can handle everything, and yet.

When he crests the hill he sees Odd circling the boar and his father readying his axe. Atreus draws another arrow and shoots, but it’s too late. The dog springs foreword to bite the animal, and the boar, with all of the courage of something that knows it’s going to die, meets him. Atreus’s arrow is true but too late. The boar lies on its side, dying, and so does odd.

“No! Odd,” Atreus runs to the dog and skids in the snow to its side. Odds tonged laps out of his mouth as he pants through the pain of his gouged sides. Blood flecks the snow beside him. 

“Boy.”

Atreus can only look at Odd.

“Boy, he is gone.”

“There has to be something we can do for him.”

“There is not. Boar hunting is always dangerous, next time kill it with one arrow.”

Kratos goes over to their kill and tosses the thing over his shoulder, before slinging it onto a slay so that he might drag it behind them.

“The dog is in pain. Free him.”

But something in Atreus rebels. He remembers Freya in her woods. Freya who has not spoken to them in three years, but maybe she can help.

Atreus slings odd over his shoulder the way his father has slung the boar. Odd does complain, he only woofs a little hopelessly. 

Then he begins to follow in his father’s bigger footsteps. 

Technically it should be summer, but ragnorak has started and summers disappeared. The snow is not deep enough for snow shoes, but it crunches beneath his feet and causes him to slip more than once. The world hungers now. Atreus can feel it, wolves kill each other over scraps and deer gnaw at tree bark. Atreus, twelve now, has a better understanding of the world, and knows that it is falling apart. 

The wind howls above them, an icy river meanders towards and away from their path and- Atreus pauses.

His father would have kept walking, but Atreus, carrying Odd, trails behind. His steady slow tread allowed him to catch what his father had not, the subtle sour smell of human habitation. Campfire, cooked meat and burning herbs, and the washing out to dry. Stopping, he looks around.

“Boy,” says his father, though with some understanding.

There it is, Atreus steps towards a shadow in the glen, and when he meets resistance he pushes. Then winces with the touch of foreign magic. The- wards, for lack of a better word, break and a haphazard camp appears in a large bow of the river beneath the branches of a fir tree. A flat river stone heats with a fire burning steadily underneath it, a fish waits for cooking, herbs hang to dry on a fine piece of yarn strung between the camp and the fire. The witch, for she can be nothing else, stand in the boughs of the fir tree, one hand on the hilt of her dagger.

Her mouth puckers, and her brows curl towards her nose. Recognizing her distress Atreus says, “Lady, we mean you no harm. We are coming home from a hunting trip when-”

“Boy.”

“When a boar set upon my dog,” Atreus gestures to the animal slung upon his shoulder dripping blood in the snow. Odd yaps pitifully in response.

“Boy, silence.”

Atreus frowns at his father, meaning to argue, but stops. His father is glaring at the woman. He stands with his feet apart and his chin high, but his hand has crept to his axe. The witch looks about as happy to them, though she pays the most attention to the boy’s father.

The witch presses her palms to her eyes as if to relieve pressure and says something in a tonged neither can understand. She then collects herself turns her back on them and says, “Hail Travelers,” though her accent makes it difficult to decipher at first.

Then Kratos says something Atreus cannot understand in what must be his mother tongue. The woman answers in the same language, but his father seems to visibly deflate.

“Witch.”

She jumps down from the tree and approaches them. Her hand is still on her dagger, but she merely eyes them wearily. This close Atreus can see that her eyes are a color similar to his fathers, though less orange and more gold, her hair falls messily down her sides, he can’t tell much more about her because she is covered head to toe in a ragged mishmash of garments.

She says something to Kratos, who says instead, “Speak in a tongue we can all understand.”

She shakes her head and tosses her hands in the air, though the gesture seems to be more of a habit than anything else, “So be it, you hear me a make mess of this language.”

Atreus, sensing her resolve waver tries again.

“My dog was hurt by a boar, and our home is many miles away. Can we have a spot by your fire tonight?”

“Atreus. This is not the place for that.”

But it is, her can feel Odd trembling on his shoulder.

“Wait- wait,” she waves her hands delicately at her side, keeping them in Kratos view, “I did not want to be seen. But since you have, let us make a-” she said something to Kratos

He glares at her for a few seconds, but she just sends him an insincere smile and tucks a strand of her dark curling hair behind her ear. 

“A deal, that’s the word you look for. What do you want witch.”

“Ah, you have found my- em- my noble profession,” she wags her eyebrows at the word noble, “A deal, okay, I fix your dog. You stay by the fire tonight, and tomorrow you tell no one you saw me.”

Translating, Kratos says, “You want us to pretend we didn’t see you.”

“Yes, it’s simple no?” Though the way she said it, it sounded more like “Eet’s seemple no?”

Atreus moves towards her, but Kratos puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

Atreus looks at his father, “Please.” Odd’s breathing is slowing, and Atreus knows death is not far.

Kratos risks a look at his son, sighs heavily, returns his gaze to the witch, and let’s go. She draws out a piece a bread, dribbles it with something, and they each grasp a side, breaking it between them.

“Good.”

Atreus lays Odd down at her feet, the dog stills, and she sighs and says something else he can’t understand. 

“It’s worse than I thought.” 

The Odd twitches, and then she curses, for that is the only thing such a quick interjection can be, “I need you to find me a grass- em a plant, it has red berries and its leaves are like little spears. They point.”

Atreus runs off, but in the background he can hear the witch direct his father to a place where he can clean the boar.

Kratos says something Atreus can’t hear, but the witch responds with, “Yes! I try to get rid of you, do you like when people watch you work?”

Red berries, barbed leaves, red berries barbed leaves. There! In the distance he hears Odd yelp.

When he returns to camp Odd is sitting up gingerly by the fire grinning up at the witch as she bustles by the river making quick work of the fish that previously sat by the fire.

“Oh, uh, here you are,” he hands her the plant she asked for. She looks at it blandly for a moment before taking it and pinning it with the other herbs.

“Thank you.”

Kratos joins them a few moments later, and the three of them awkwardly sit around the fire listening to it crackle and smelling the pungent foreign spices that the witch covered the fish in.

Atreus’ stomach whines up at him, but he knows they will have to wait tomorrow for to finish whatever they still had at the house. So he settles himself down and prepares for a hungry night. Only to smile with the witch passes him a large portion of fish.

Kratos grabs her hand and she stills before very deliberately looking at his father.

“We do not accept charity.”

“Cha-rree-tee- what does this word mean?”

When Kratos does not respond the witch clicks her tongue at him and says, “As if I would let anybody who sits at my fire go hungry,” she gesticulates at his father and removes his hand from her arm.

Kratos glares some more, the woman glares right back. She gives the plates to Atreus, and while still glaring at his father, hands Kratos a plate as well. She then takes her own and begins to eat. 

Atreus joins and soon peppers her with questions about what she is doing and where she is from. Unfortunately, she proves to be as evasive as his father. But then she asks him for tales about this land and Atreus chatters some more.

“If only Mimir were here, he has the best stories.”

“Mimir ey, is he a poet?”

“Poet? No.”

“I only thought because Poets ‘ave the best stories, the only stories,” she says this as she takes a bit of bread and dips it in the fish sauce. 

Following her direction, he does the same, and licks his lips in delight, “No, he is our friend.”

She looks at Kratos, whose glare has not let up her smile as in-genuine as the first time.

“I remember a tale, it is famous all over, not just of where I am from. Have you heard of Hector of Troy, or Achilles of the ant-men?”

Atreus shook his head.

“Ah, I am not good story teller, but your father should know that one. It is famous for its great men, its good men, and some of men not so good.”

Kratos cuts her off with something in Greek, for that is the only language they could be speaking.

When he turns to Atreus he says, “It’s late.”

The witch laughs.

And that’s it, bedtime. Odd curls by Atreus’ side, a small warmth in a cold world.

In the morning they rise with the sun. The witch is grinding something on her mortar and pestal and simply waves one hand at them as they rise. 

As they leave, Kratos leaves a boar leg in the snow for her. 

She takes on look at it and says “Oh! I do not accept ‘cha-ree-tee’.”

She waves at them as if to take it.

Kratos simply harrumphs, “As if I would let anybody heal my dog, and feed my son without providing something in return.”

“Ha!” she says with a shake of her head. But that seems to be that.

Atreus can only wonder if the only way to meet witches in woods is to heal animals.

The walk back to the house is silent, broken only by Odd’s antics, or by the breeze making the trees crack above them. Atreus enjoys the silence of the young winters day and Kratos appears to be lost in his thoughts. 

Twilight runs its greedy fingers around them as they make their way over the crest into their ring of the woods. Atreus woops and runs back into the house, clattering around he does, looking for both Mimir and the fire starter. It is cold.

“Brother, is that you?”

“Mimir, we met a witch!”

“Did you now, What was she like?”

Outside, they could hear Kratos putting the boar meet in the smoke house. Atreus found the left over turnips from the all too brief summer, and put it in a pot with the last of the hare.

“Nice, she healed Odd.”

Atreus lifted the dog as if to show his scars, or lack-there-of.

“Indeed, I can see that, it doesn’t look like anything happened to him at all actually. Are ya sure he was hurt?”

Kratos lumbers in, “Boy, see to the boar.”

Atreus does as directed, when he is gone Kratos turns to the head but hesitates, “The dog died. She did not just heal him, she brought him back from the dead.”

If Mimir were capable he would be running his hand down his beard, but alas, he has no hands, “That’s powerful magic that.”

Kratos crosses his arms over his chest.

“She got rid of both of us while she did it, but I know the sound of a dying animal.”

Mimir looks at Odd. Still dumb, but happy. Nothing has changed. 

Then an irony glints in his eyes, “She also healed the dog on the condition that we tell nobody of her whereabouts.”

“Who would I tell brother, you two are the only ones I evar see.”

Atreus tumbles in, “Father, you already put it up, I don’t know what you were talking about. But the witch, was she like you? Was she Greek?”

“No.”

Atreus waits patiently and then asks after a long enough time has passes, “How did you know.”

Kratos sighs with the weariness of a parent with a clever child, “Her Greek was accented.”

“Do you know where she is from?”

“No.”

“Do you know who Acyllis is?”

“No.”

Atreus frowns, if Kratos were the type, he would put a finger to the bridge of his nose.

“I admit brother, I too would like to hear about the fall of Troy,” Mimir puts in.

Kratos glances between them and says, “It’s a story for another night.”


	2. Greece is Calling

Kratos chops wood in the yard. The menial work gives him something to do while his mind wanders. These winters have been long, and the summers short. He knows they have to move now, and he wonders how far fimbulwinter spreads. If it is truly the end of this world, or only the end of where this pantheon resides. The latter, hopefully.

Distantly he registers the heavy tread of an animal with a load, the snort of a horse. The slow chatter of men. They too exclaim about the cold. Kratos goes back to the house to ready his axe. Atreus waits at the door for him, fletching new arrows.

The boy asks, “What are they saying?”

Kratos looks back and listens, and curses when he recognizes Greek.

He puts the axe down and fetches the chaos blades from their hiding spot.

“Boy, hide.”

“But what if you need my help?” the boy says as he clambers down into the cellar.

There is a spike of fear in Kratos' gut, he has not felt this way in a long time. But if humans had found him, what else might? Are there any left? He looks at Atreus’s hiding spot and thinks, not for the first time, that he should have taught the boy Greek.

Something flashes, and then Athena joins him. She says nothing, but she smiles at him nonetheless.

When Kratos opens the door the whole party is arranged in the yard. Six men with two donkeys. Wait- seven, there is wizened old woman astride one of the beasts. Seven people.

He stands there glaring at them.

One of the men, the leader, steps foreword.

“Hail Kratos of Sparta, God of War and-”

The man would have kept on going, but Kratos waves him off, “I know who I am. Who are you?”

The man pauses and bows his head, “I am Laertes son of-” but the man is cut off by a voice that is just as likely to blow away as it is to make any sense.

“They came with me, son of Sparta.”

The woman raises her head and he looks into her eyes, one rheumy and white, the other so dark the iris swallos its pupil. The last time he saw this woman she had been seven years old, but it must be the same one.

“Oracle. I killed the last one.”

“I know, I was there.”

They both stand silent, appraising each other from across the yard.

“It is rude to leave your guest out in the cold.”

“You are not my guests.”

Then men fidget at this, but the old woman opens her maw in a smile, revealing the few teeth she has left.

“So be it son of Sparta. We shall discuss this out here then." The old woman pauses, likely a bid to increase the drama, "The gods have returned.”

Internally Kratos heart leaps into his throat, if it is possible Athena oozes more than her usual insufferable superiority.

Kratos pushed the door open, makes sure Atreus is hidden, and then nods to the woman. One man helps her off the mule, while the others crowd by his fire rubbing their hands and stamping their feet.

“Do we have guests brother?” Asks Mimir from his post.

The men move to the opposite side of the fire from the head, some glare, one even shrieks, but the old woman says, “There’s one that looks even worse than I do,” and laughs.

Kratos takes the woman to Mimir’s corner and says, “What do you mean the gods have returned.”

She helps herself to a cup of fire warmed water before answering.

“That the thing about killing gods. The Olympians and the titans are tied to our world, Gaia the earth. Helios the Sun. Poseidon the sea. Those bonds are difficult to sever.”

“I killed Ares.”

“Yes you did, but not when you ran him through with your sword. Ares died not because you killed him physically, but because you took his place. His nature, the source of his power, his purpose, transferred to you. When you killed the others you left gaping holes in our world. Hades without a lord of the dead to manage it? Think about it.” The old woman tuts and takes another sip of water.  
“So what happens when you leave all that power with nowhere to go? No channel? The gods are back boy, more powerful than ever, though weary as well, and we have you to thank for that.”

Kratos cracks his neck. How to let this woman know that he cares not for stories of the gods and is only concerned about their revenge.

“Why are you here.”

“We need a god of war. There is gap in the pantheon.”

“I will never be that person again.”

“Pah,” says the woman as she picks up a slim wand of birch and slaps it against his bicep, “And we don’t want you. You had that power for how long? And look at what happened!”

Kratos glares at her in an attempt to get her to move to the point.

“You need to come to Olympus and surrender your nature, let someone else take up the mantle of the god of war.”

“No.”

For a moment the woman looks distraught, and then furious.

“Our lands are still in Chaos. To return them to balance the pantheon must be full.”

“Woman, are you really so eager to be ruled again? Do you not remember what those times were like.”

“Oh I remember, but I also know what they were like afterwards. The dead flowed out from Hades, and the seas stilled, no currents, no fish, no nothing... No sun to make things grow?” Her voice pitches up at that. “Besides, you planted a fear of us in the gods. If some trumped up demi-god can do it once, what is to stop another? No, they won’t even come up here to seek their revenge.”

Kratos files that away.

“I shall ask again, come to Olympus to surrender your power.”

“No.”

This time the woman smiles again, Kratos looks at her teeth and then her eyes, focusing on the black one.

“Alright Spartan, then let me tell you what I have seen,” as she says this her black eye fogs up, and Kratos is taken up in the image the mist forms. Her voice become sonorous and surrounds him, his arms feel both heavy and light.

“That nature you fight so hard against, eventually you might not have a choice. There must be a god of war, and if you will not surrender it, it will be you.”

The mist mirrors him, and then walks right through him, slaying a man and a woman defending their home. The image changes, he walks across a battle field, empty save for a woman whose features resolve into Freya. She draws the sword she cannot use. Kratos slays her, and her bodies joins the countless others already on the field.

Kratos exhales heavily.

“No.”

“I have seen it.”

For a moment Kratos hates the woman.

The woman no longer smiles, and her eye has cleared.

“I don’t want the ghost of Sparta coming home any more than you do.”

Kratos relents, but wonders, What will happen to him?

As if sensing his thoughts, the woman says, “You won’t lose you god-hood, nobody can take that away. But you will lose your nature,” she shrugs, “who knows, maybe you will find a new sphere of influence, one that suits you better.”

Kratos crosses his arms. If only these warnings were easy to ignore. But he knows the truth of it. Can feel a stirring in his blood, a sickness in his veins. Ares’s curse festering in his blood, harming his loved ones again.

“So be it. I will come.”

Relief flits across her face, and then she looks at him in the eye, “My name is Calliope.”

In his chest his heart twists, but his face remains as immobile as stone.

“We leave tomorrow,” he says this louder, so that the woman’s honor guard might hear.

There is muffled protest, but most seem happy to be leaving the cold.

He looks at the cluster of men, “And you are camping in the yard.”

One man protests, but another shoves him in the back, most seem content to not be sharing a roof with the ghost of Sparta.

Wonderful.

Next to him, Athena's vaporous smile pierces the guard he has on his anger. Then she vanishes. 

Almost as soon as the men sludge their way back into the snow Atreus is out of the basement.

With his eyes towards the door, Atreus asks “Who were they? What did they want? Wait, was that… Greek?”

In his excitement, Atreus glances at his father, “Father, are you alright?”

“No.”

Seeing no point in lying, Kratos continues, “I will be leaving tomorrow.” Atreus smiles, since their trip to Jotunheim the boy seems to have wet his appetite for adventure, “You are staying here.”

“What no! You can’t,” Atreus reacts immediately, throwing his arms around in protest.

Mimir interrupts, as he is wont to do, “Brother, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Kratos looks down at them both. Of course it’s not a good idea. But he is not ready to share the ghost of Sparta with his son. And if the god’s find he has a child? He pictures his father alive, and his reaction. No, Atreus stays here.

“Atreus stays here with Mimir. The boar should last you six months, there are fish in the river. I will return before the solstice.”

“Father, can’t we talk about this?”

“No,” he says this as he busies himself around the cabin. The Chaos blades come with him, as does the axe.

“You can’t just leave me here! What happens if you don’t come back? What happens if you die?” Atreus’s voice jumps at the last bit, and Kratos can hear the tears that the boy holds back. In his chest his heart twists once more, this time he grasps Atreus by the shoulder and inhales deeply.

“I would not leave if I thought I had a choice,” but in his heart Kratos knows the old woman is right. He’s felt the stirring’s of the old rage in his heart, occasionally felt the desire to kill something just because he can, and it’s been growing stronger. Like a phoenix from the ashes it rises again, and he will not mix Atreus up in it.

“Father-”

“You are a man now Atreus,” or he will be one soon, “Do this for me. I will be back soon.”

Atreus gazes at his father, in his eyes Kratos can see the questions, and also a great deal of anger. No matter, the boy is obedient and full of love. It will pass.

Kratos hesitates for a moment and then hugs the boy, “I will be back boy.”

Kratos leaves in the morning. 

Atreus watches through the slats of the window, and does not cry.

He is drying his eyes as he turns to Mimir.

“Ah little brother, what now?”

Atreus tries to think, but to be honest, he is still reeling from the loss of his father. Gone, not dead, but gone by choice. It’s the first time his father has left their cabin for a significant amount of time since his mother died.

“Well, the smoke house needs a new roof. And we have to smoke the meat.”

“Right you do, but that will only last so long.”

“Well, that just means you will have to entertain us with stories.”

“Will I now?”

Atreus gives Mimir a smile, “You tell the best stories,” and the head simpers.

“Well, that is the case.”

And so Atreus re-thatches the roof the first day and smokes the meat for the next three, all the while Mimir told tales.

“Mimir,” asks Atreus, “Do you know anything of” he try’s the foreign consonants, “Ac-yles?”

Mimir pauses for a moment, “I think you mean Achylles,” but that does not sound right to Atreus either.

“No,” continue Mimir, “I’m afraid I don’t. Tyr knew the tale though, all I know is that it told of a fabled city at the far edge of a sea far from here, and its fall. Acyllis was one of the heroes who fought in the battle. But that is all I know.”

“Alright, tell me something of… Freya, or Freyr.”

“Freya eh…” the head pauses, “Freya, oh! I have one.”

Mimir clears his throat, “Before Freya moved to Asgard, before she became Odin’s wife she was known for a few things. She was equally renowned for her beauty as for her ferocity in battle. And for that men, dwarves, gods, all coveted her. So it was that four dwarf brothers came to her door at her house: Folkvangr, and offered to make her four beautiful pieces of jewelry if she would…” Mimir pauses, searching for words, “take each as a husband for one evening.”

“They wanted to marry her?”

“Not quite, but that is a conversation you can have with your father, little brother.”

Atreus rolls his eyes at the head, “I know what sex is.”

“Well then, I'm sure you do”, but the head does not sound convinced. Mimir clears his throat once more, “They each wanted one night with Freya and would each pay with the finest pieces of jewelry imaginable, diamonds that glittered like stars set in gold as bright as the sun, or so they promised.

“Now, she never told me what she was thinking. But I can guess. I think Freya wanted to teach these brothers a lesson for thinking she could be bought, with jewelry especially! Ha, can you imagine? So she said to them, I only need one piece of jewelry, so each of you shall make me the most beautiful thing you can imagine, and I will decide which is best.

“She gave them a week. And each brother toiled over his kiln, setting jewels, making revisions- perfecting their gifts to Freya. And on the day each presented their gift to her she said to them. ‘I cannot decide whose is finest, for they are all so different.’ So the brothers argued and then they fought, and then they killed eachother.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it little brother.”

Atreus steps outside to check on the smoke house, “But that doesn’t seem like the Freya we know at all.”

“Aye, well powerlessness changes a person, and she was certainly powerless in the house of Odin. All she had at the end was Baldur, and even that is gone now.”

Atreus adds more wood to the fire, “But Baldur was… well. He was crazy.”

“It would surprise you to know, then, that at one point Baldur was as good and just as Tyr. He was light personified and the people loved him and prayed to him at mid-winter, and he would answer... But that was before he went mad.”

Atreus sounds doubtful, “Huh, are you sure.”

“I’m sure, I knew him. He tried to convince his father too free me when I was first pinned to the tree.”

As the door shuts, Atreus mulls over this.

“There must be something we can do to help?”

“Oh, no, I really don’t think there is. Little brother, three years is not enough time to heal a wound like the death of a son. She could kill you.”

“We have to try. At least we can make things better between us.”

“We can’t. Please little brother, what would your father say?”

Atreus pauses at the threshold, the door open, the forest in front and his house behind, “My father isn’t here.”

Above them the sky lights up. Odd bounds up to him from the smoke house and yips too his side.

It takes less than half the day to make his way to the house of the witch. The weather worsens the farther they are from home, and Atreus can only wonder if maybe Mimir was right.

But no, there it is. The wards buzz as he walks through but don’t stop him as he stumbles through the rain to Freya’s door.

“Freya! Are you there?” but no answer.

“Please,” he yells as he pounds on her door, “you have to let me in.”

The wind whips the trees above him, and the rain comes down harder.

“It’s about fimbulwinter, about Ragnorak.”

“Freya,” tries Mimir, “It’s just the boy, hear him out. He came in good faith.”

Atreus sees a shadow flick under the door and tries one last time, “It’s about Baldur.”

The door yanks open of its own accord, and a vacuum sucks the two of them in.  
Odd jumps through the door before it can close. Freya’s back faces them.

Atreus pulls himself off the floor and thinks, Maybe this was a mistake.

“What could you possibly tell me about my son that I don’t already know?”

Atreus doesn’t know what to say to that, but then Freya had not known her son for 100 years, at least, “Well, not much, but he was so angry when we met last.”

“Angry?” Freya turns to him, her brow a line parallel to her mouth, her nose pulled up slightly on one side, her eyes unyielding save for rage. But the look vanishes, something else replaces it, maybe despair.

“Why are you here?” She asks as she sits.

Atreus shuffles foreword, this was Freya, she saved him, she was his friend, at one point, right?

“I wanted to see if there was anything we, I could do to make it better?”

“Can you bring back my son?”

“No, but I don’t understand, he would have killed you!”

Freya gazes at him, her eyes red and glassy, and when she speaks her voice does not have its usual sonorousness.

“Your father,” here her eyes narrow, “if you tried to kill him, what would he do?”

Atreus doesn’t know exactly, but he remembers shooting his father with a lightning arrow, and the consequences, or lack-there-of.

“I don’t know.”

She sighs once heavily, “Leave, just leave.”

Odd whines and walks to Freya, and while she can’t look at Atreus, she takes the dogs head in her hands and scratches him on his neck. Atreus is not sure he wants to go, not with the storm thundering outside as it is. He walks to one of the windows and looks out. Behind him, Freya continues petting the dog, her hands spark, and the room lights up briefly as Odd barks. When the light dims, Atreus sees that Freya has stood up.

“I will see you off,” she says briskly, her manner calm, her face determined.

“Freya,” intervenes Mimir, “At least wait until the rain stops.”

Instead of heeding the head, her movements speed up, “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

And out the door she goes with Odd trailing after her.

“Hey wait,” says Atreus as he follows.

“Little brother- Atreus," tries the head with more urgency, "I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Obviously not, if Atreus was not wet before, he was soaked now. And cold. But there is Freya, at the edges of her forest. Atreus trots up to her panting and places his hands on his knees.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can do?”

But he can’t see her face when he tries to look her in the eye, she says “Who knows.”

Atreus walks though the confines of the threshold and foreword. Ahead of him something there crashes, while a blinding light of blue flashes as something huge knocks him over. And then Freya stands above him, between him and the shadow that batted him down.

“Thor,” she says, “Take us to Odin, I have a deal to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale is of Freya and her necklace Brisingamen. In the myth she actually slept with each of the dwarf brothers and got one necklace. But God of War has always taken the mythology to an extreme, so I thought that this bloodier might be more plausible with cannon GOW Freya. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	3. Asgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everbody gathers in Asgard.

Chapter 3:

Atreus can feel the beads of water collect on his head and roll down his back, but he can’t hear anything over the beat of the rain and the thunder’s cry. Then a flash of lightning pounds the ground, the trees above shake, Atreus has to take a knee, and the god of thunder steps out of a halo of electricity. Thor is a striking silhouette shrouded in a fog of light.

Muddled, Atreus tries to get back to the boundary of the witch’s glen, but the witch herself grabs his arm to prevent him from moving.

“Freya, what makes you think the All-father will listen to you?” Thor’s voice pounds against him as water might rushes against bedrock at the bottom of a waterfall. As he moves rain runs off him, and hangs suspended a few seconds before it falls to the earth. Nothing about the Aesir is subtle. 

“Because I have one last piece of magic for him,” Freya says over the torrent of rain, “I want to bring Baldur back from the dead.”

Atreus can’t believe it, not what he hears, nor what is happening, and not who betrayed him. For a moment anger takes hold of him, presses its hands to his throat and chokes him, but it passes. Now that he knows what Spartan rage is, he can stop it.

Thor considers Freya through the rain. To Atreus she looks like a mad woman, bare foot without a coat in the early winter slushy rain. But Thor must find something he likes, because he says “So be it.”

The Aesir takes Atreus from Freya and slings the boy under his arms, and Atreus can’t help but notice that Thor smells of Iron and stale ale. Mimir almost falls into the mud, only Atreus’s quick reflexes keep him out of it.

With his voice of grinding stone Thor says, “Lead witch, you know the way.”

Odd follows in their wake.

A fog a fear and anger blur his trip to Asgard. It brings to mind the last time this happened, only this time Kratos does not come crashing into the temple to whisk him off to Hel. They had told him that she might not relinquish her dislike, but this! Given to Thor-the-jotun-killer.

When he comes back from his furious musings he notices Freya speaking to a man.

Thor is a giant, built like a bull with wiry red hair all over his body, and a short neck. In contrast, Odin, for this can only be Odin, is a straight backed wiry old man with close cropped hair and a well-trimmed beard. Runes run their way up across his forehead in intricate patterns that remind Atreus of a spider’s web, and nothing hides the gaping hole of his missing eye.

Atreus freezes, while Mimir, dangling between his hands, appears to be asleep.

When Odin speaks his voice echoes across the hall, sonorous, “Freya, wife, look at what you have brought me. It has been a while since I have called you dutiful hasn’t it, beloved.”

Freya, smiles at him without her eyes and with her teeth, “Odin, I know how to stop ragnorak.”

That peaks the old man’s interest, apparently not surprised by the lack of pleasantries, “How indeed wife, since I am not even sure how it started.”

“It started with the death of my- or our son.” Freya pauses, draws a breath and frowns at Odin, “But, things are out of order. Where is fenrisulf? Where is the goddess Hel?”

Seeing her line of thought, Odin says, “The trickster has not been born yet.”

“Exactly,” she says, and she knows she has him, “so it can be undone. If we stop it now, nobody will have to die” but what she means is- you won’t have to die, “All we have to is bring back Baldur.”

“Bringing back the dead is no easy magic,” Odin absently combs his fingers through his beard. Atreus wonders if the ‘all-father’ has tried.

“No, it’s not” she turns away swiftly, and looks across the hall, “and I am not sure if I can, but at least we must try.”

Odin flicks his one eye to Atreus and then back to Freya.

“You forget wife, you cannot leave Midgard without my permission.”

Freya freezes and Atreus watches her eyes dim, her mouth purse together and the edges of her lips curl up slightly. He knows that were she capable, she would have snapped into a full Spartan rage. 

Instead she collects herself and says, “So be it, there is another.”

This gets his attention, though he waits for her to continue.

Freya nods too Odd, “Look at the dog,” Odin steps towards Odd, and holds out his hand. 

She asks, “What do you see?”

Odin runs his fingers through Odds bedraggled fur, “The cur reeks of foreign magic.”

Freya smiles, “The dog was brought back from the dead by a mortal witch,” at his look she knows she has him.

Whereas before Odin affected an air of disinterest, he could no longer hide his desire, “Where is he, the mage?”

“I don’t know.”

He casts a thunderous look her way.

“But I can find them. For a price.”

He waved his hand to continue.

“You must send the mage, whoever they are, to Hel to bring back my son.”

“Of course, that is why we are summoning them here.”

But Freya was not done, “I would have you vow it.”

Odin says nothing, “You ask much, wife. But power over life and death is a powerful incentive.”

Freya says, “Exactly, I don’t care what you do with them afterwards.”

“On what? What would you have me swear on?”

Sensing her victory, Freya says, “I want you to swear that the mage will go to Hel on all the knowledge you have gained with that eye or yours floating in the well.”

Fury chases its way across his face, “Now that I know of the mage, what’s to stop me from finding them myself.”

Freya laughs, and Atreus sees in her the war goddess she once was, “Who will you send? Your best tracker is dead. Thor?” She laughs, “Or will you go down yourself with your clumsy magic? Alerting anyone with any magical sense all that they need to get out.”

Neither speak. Odin chews furiously on his lip while Freya stares at him, and then Odin turns away, “So be it.”

They both step forward, Freya produces a jar of mead, they both take a swig, Freya recites something, and Odin repeats her oath. They clasp hands, and for a moment, time seems to shift around them.

“You have your oath, find the witch,” Odin says as he turns away in disgust.

With that, he strides out of the room. Atreus, forgotten in every way that matters, is discreetly ushered into the hands of a few of kindly goddesses, and quietly stowed away.

One of them, a young lady with hair somewhere between red and blond, tucks him in and leaves him in the dark. 

Before she leaves she says, “Do not try to leave. Odin has the palace warded, no one can go without his permission.”

Atreus sighs, of course. He turns his gaze to the ceiling, the only thing he can make out are the brief glimmers of gold. He looks to the still sleeping Mimir resting on the table.

When he is sure he is alone he calls out, “Mimir, what happened, wake up!”

The head shakes suddenly, “Little brother, I was’na asleep, if I try hard enough, I can make people think I’m not there. I’m surprised it worked on Odin ta be honest.”

“Is what she said right? Are we really trapped.”

“For now at least we stay put. We might be able to leave with a littl’ bit on ingenuity!”

And so they stayed, their only company the occasional goddess who would usher them out of the little room in the corner and around the grounds of Asgard. All were young, and all seemed to feel as ensnared as Atreus. Their walks seemed less a reward for Atreus, and more a distraction for the young women. Asgard is beautiful, light from the sun mingles with the light of Alfheim, bathing the realm in a cool glow. Single flowers grow to the size of small dogs making walks through the rose garden an exercise in dodging giant petals as they fall.

Then while on one stroll, the gates of Asgard open and the bedraggled little witch falls through the door. On her back she glares up at her captors and says something scathing in that language that she speaks. Freya strides in after, grabs the girl by the arm and yanks her up. The witches’ hands are bound in cuffs before her and blood dries on her brow. 

She cranes her head as the door shuts behind her, and as she turns back he catches her eye. Then Freya moves forward and the tethered witch has to follow. Atreus loses them both to the crowed that precipitates from whatever miserable corners Aesir spend their time. Being small has its advantages though, as he elbows his way through the crowed.

Freya disappears into the throng of people at the feet of Odin’s throne, leaving the other witch all on her own. Odin strides down the stairs of his throne and stalks his way to the woman and unlocks the chains around her wrists, “Who put these on you?” he booms.

She looked confusedly at him and he says, “Oh my dear, do you speak our language?”

Her brows inched up, and then she smiles with her teeth, and not particularly attractive, “Oh yes, I was- em- just wondering if I would ever meet anybody with some- will you remind of the word- oh yes –civility- again.”

If she shocks Odin with her words, he did not show it, “My dear,” his answering smile is charming, “No need to worry anymore.”

“Wonderful, then being civilized, you of course know that before any business is discussed, you feast, and before you feast, you bathe.”

The woman pauses, places a hand over her mouth and says, “Oh wait, you do have the baths here, don’t you?”

A woman standing next to Atreus scoffs, and behind him someone exclaims, “What airs, and from a human.”

The witch does not notice, and neither does Odin, though his smile no longer reaches his eyes, “We do.”

“And music, you must have music when you bath. I am tired, so something very- load to keep me up.”

Odin gestures to the scribe taking notes and says, “Loud you mean? Our best musicians for the lady.”

“And an attendant of course, to run me errands, generally children. I think that one will do,” she says as she points out Atreus.

Odin says “Oh, that one would not know what to do.”

She responds, with something none of them understand and then translates “We have a saying, it is something like- you learn when you practice.”

To which he can only reply, “Of course.”

“Thank you,” she dips her head, “you are a host, wait, a gra-ci-ous host,” she says, trying out the new word.

And that is how Atreus finds himself an hour later. Running ridiculous little errands for someone he knows was sleeping in the dirt only last night. He almost rolls his eyes at the next one. Lavender soap. What is lavender? Going by the list he has been given its probably useless. He goes the attendant at the linen closet and they share an eye roll. He wonders if the world would be a better place if the palace gave up things like lavender soap.

After the lavender soap it’s to return the cloths Sif lent her, and after that it’s for a silk towel. And then finally, its nothing. Atreus, frustrated, stands behind the wall protecting the bather from view. The musicians play something raucous and as unrelaxing as you can get across the room, and the heat has made him dizzy.

He hides from here there when he hears her call the guards to her. Three women fall into place. Two he can hear moving in the room, and one steps forward from his alcove. They all had been watching the witch and not the door. 

“Could have…” she pauses searching for the word, Atreus assumes, “privacy?”

“Lady, we were told to guard your person.”

“I see,” and then she says something, though he can’t hear it over the noise of the instruments, and then again, “I think my person can be guarded just as well outside this room as in.”

And to Atreus’ surprise, they leave.

There is more rustling, the mist funnels out of the room, and then she says, “Boy, what’s your name.”

Atreus starts, surprised that she addresses him, “Yes you, hurry up now, your name.”

“Um, it’s Atreus.”

“Atreus, that’s interesting?” she seems genuinely surprised. 

He wonders and can’t help himself, “Why?”

The woman walks into his view wearing a foreign linen dress with a checkered pattern of two shades of green on the skirt and a shiny belt that he distantly recognizes as gold. She ties the sides, and when she finished he sees he that the colors suit her.

“Because the Atreus in mythology butchered his half-brother for the throne of Olympia.”

“I am not named after that Atreus,” he says while gritting his teeth.

She puts both hands up, “Peace, I did not think you were.”

Without the filth Atreus can see what he missed. That her hair was dark and viciously curly, not messy, and that her arms are wiry and strong. He wonders for the first time who she is? The witch in the glen or the lady in the entrance hall.

“Wait,” she says reaching for the silent Mimir, “What is this?”

She pokes one of his eyes and then another, and then again, “Ah, stop that!”

She puts a hand on her mouth as be brows furrow, “A talking head. The work of that witch.”

Then she pushes a bunch of her hair out the way and turns, “Tell me Atreus, did you betray me to this Odin.”

“No! Somehow Freya knew.”

She presses her mouth into a thin line “Freya is the other witch.”

He nods.

Then she says, “Atreus, I think we might be able to get out of this mess, if you are who I think you are, we will have to work together to do it.”

Atreus has many questions, who is she? How does she know who he is? Who does she think he is? But the one he settles with is: “Well what’s your name.”

“Ha! Look at me, now I am the rude one. Call me Circe.”

“Circe.”

“Atreus.”

“And this is Mimir.”

The musicians end their last tune and strike up a new one as terrible as the last. 

Mimir winces, “If only I could cover my ears.”

The witch ignores him, instead going through the little bag she brought with her, she rifles through it until she finds what she wants. 

“Try this on,” She holds it up to him, “The green will go with your eyes.”

She steps into the alcove as he changes, and indeed it does. It’s a child’s kilt that wraps around his waist, with a section that he flaps over his shoulder and onto his back.

When she sees him she nods. 

Mimir, facing the back of the room grunts, “My god woman, what did you do to them?”

“Who?” Asks Atreus.

But she walks over to the musicians, and it is only now that Atreus notices that they are standing facing the wall with their eyes closed, strumming or drumming without rhyme or reason. Is that why the music is so bad? Next to him, the witch places a hand on the wall and takes a deep breath.

She snaps and they open their eyes as a one, confusion written on their faces.

“Thank you so much, the music was wonderful.” 

Sensing the dismissal, they file out of the room.

“Come on.”

Outside the door the three guards stand at attention. She puts a hand on each in turn and they wake up, and as they wake Mimir hides once more.

They exchange looks with each other “Lady?”

“You were feeling dizzy from the steam, so I told you to take a rest out here for a moment. Are you feeling better?”

“Oh, I feel fine,” says one smiling weakly, thought from Atreus’ view it seems the guards of Asgard were used to unforeseen spell work.

“Lady, the hall is this way.”

The guards try to position themselves around Circe, but instead the witch takes off at a pace that would make it impossible for the guards to surround her. Atreus has to jog to keep up.

Thus it is, that instead of entering the dining hall like a prisoner, Circe enters with an honor guard. 

And it is changed. The lights shine brightly, and the women and men have gold in their hair, on their beards, and resting on their finger.

Circe has a position of honor, up the table from everyone else, and she chatters about everything and absolutely nothing. Topics include the weather, tomorrows weather, new patterns in gold smithing and those darned dwarves. 

Atreus wonders if all dinners are this boring. Luckily he does not have to listen to that prattle for too long as he is busy tracking to and from the table bring copious amounts of food.

He hears Circe’s voice raise above the noise and say to Odin, “What great spell work this house has.”

“I did much of it myself,” from his voice he is pleased that she notices. 

“I am curious about the lights, they are fueled by the sun, and yet the sun is so far from this realm. The precision it must have taken to make them,” she seems like she could go on but Odin lets out a great laugh. 

“The lights are dwarfish work.”

Their conversation falls back into the din.

Then a voice cuts through the rabble. Freya, frustrated with the nonsense, shouts something at Odin and then turns to the other witch.

“Dabble in necromancy do you?”

Circe shrugs, “What is necromancy?”

“Bringing back the dead.”

“Oh necromancy, I thought that was reanimating corpses.”

Freya glares at her, Circe glares back.

Circe pauses to mull on her mean before she says, “Is there anybody you want me to reanimate.”

Freya looks like she’s about to throw her cup and its contents across the table. 

Odin intervenes, “Lady, we just wanted you to bring our son back to us from Hel.”

The witch dismisses them, “Better the dead stay dead.”

Freya’s face is stone and she has small spots of color high on her cheeks, “You would not understand what it is for a mother to lose her son.”

Atreus, standing behind Circe notices the way she sits up, how the silence hollows around her.

For the first time that evening Circe seems to be at a loss for words, instead her eyes light up and the lights above them dim, and then go out. People next to each other whisper amongst each other excitedly in the dark. The lights return after a moment.

When they come back on Odin smiles, “Lady, and here I thought you were human.”

More muttering as it gets around the court.

“What are you talking about?”

“You are a sun god.”

Circe sends Odin a look that seems to say congratulations and then says, “No, I am a sun god’s get.”

“Which is it? You look human, so you can’t be from Egypt, but you are Southern. Utu? Helios?”

At the last name she frowns.

“A Greek then.”

“My father is Greek, I am not,” she says this as she finishes her mead and waves for another.

“Lady, all this talk of manners and you never introduced yourself.”

She swirls her new glass of mead, “That is because you did not ask.”

Atreus sees Odin’s face light up, and the boy does not like it. He remembers Mimir’s stories about Freya, a foreign goddess with unknown magic and he worries for the first time, about this stranger in Asgard.

Circe takes another swig of mead, and Atreus reaches to stop the server from putting more in her cup.

“You can call me Circe.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

A more incredulous look Atreus has never seen, and will probably never see. Circe’s head falls back, her brows raise and her mouth looks trapped halfway between a smirk and a smile, then she laughs, “Of course you have not heard of me, my father is powerful, charming, and good looking, he has more children than thrice the people in this room.”

She takes another sip of mead, and frowns down at it, “Don’t you have any wine?”

Odin runs a hand over his shaven pate, “I am sorry for your loss,” but Atreus does not think he looks sorry, “so I think you can understand our own,” he gestures piteously to Freya, who looks like she could spit on him.

Circe, finished with the mead, puts the cup down, “What… are you talking about?”

“The Ghost of Sparta,” another deep silence follows this statement, and Atreus wonders who this ghost of Sparta is. Circe turns her head to look at Odin and Atreus can see her jaw working underneath the taunt skin of her neck and cheek.

Circe rolls her eyes, “Oh please, Helios’ ‘death’ was only temporary, I spoke to my father last twenty years ago... and the ghost of Sparta has not been seen for at least sixty.”

“A temporary death?” Odin’s tone is pensive, but underneath its first layer lies a hint of desire.

Odin turns his one eye to Circe and rakes her over, not for her looks, but beneath her skin, like he is trying to see into her blood. With his one eye he asks, can I kill you? Circe seems to pick up where the other gods mind has gone, for she sets her mead down and pushes it away from her. 

Odin’s eyes narrow then, but before he can query her on the possibility of life after death Circe slaps both hands to her face and presses her palms into her eyes and sighs. Atreus does not know this, but in the moment she curses her own stupidity. Then she makes a decision, Circe looks at the fuming Freya, “I will go to Hel.”

Across the room Atreus hears a server drop a platter, but nothing else. Even the knives have stopped moving across platters. By his side Mimir stirs, even the head seems interested to hear what is about happen.

Neither Freya nor Odin appear happy, and for the first time Atreus gets a look at what Circe must feel, nerves, anger- exhaustion. He can sympathize.

“However, the spell needs one thing. The blood of the one who killed him.”

Freya says, “Two were responsible. We can get you the blood of one.”

“Then I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

Freya says, “You misunderstand me, it was a father and son. And the son stands next to you.”

Circe glances at Atreus and seems to say ‘I told you so’.

“I need two things.”

Odin says with a grand smile, “Consider them yours,” sure that he is getting what he wants.

Circe claps her hands tighter and puts one finger up, “The first, the boy must agree to come with me.”

“Of course.”

She holds up her second finger, “You will swear an oath in blood to let me go free after I bring your son back.”

Nobody speaks, the hall holds its breath. Odin moves one of his hands to the table and examines it, “and if I should negate on this second condition.”

“You surrender your ability over all the magic you every learned, and all you ever might.”

In that moment the man at the head of the table looks like the mad blind king from Mimir’s stories. His face features carve themselves of a mountain, his lids droop heavy over his eyes. With one breath he sucks they oxygen out of the room. Already he has sworn to one witch that the other would go to Hel. 

With Freya’s curse hanging over him all he can do is slit his palm with a steak knife and make the new oath.

At the end of it all, Freya finds Atreus. She at least has the decency to look a bit ashamed.

“You knew I would have to go, that’s why you brought me here.”

As she approaches him she opens her arms and kneels down in front of him, “Yes, will you?”

In that moment Atreus hates her. He has been so scared, and she has not even come to his little room to see him. She has used him. She does not see him as person, just as a way to her son. Atreus wants to say no.

But Atreus also knows that he can stop this winter. And if bringing Baldur back is what it takes, then he will do it.

Notes

Circe is from the Odyssey. She is the daughter of Helios the sun and has three siblings and countless half siblings. Helios did tend to get around. 

Mythological Atreus is the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus, two other characters from the Odyssey.


	4. Cool Cats at the Bridge of Screams

Atreus wakes in the morning still in a daze from the night before. Servants hustle around his tiny corner room. Unused to the bustle of so many people, he looks for his father. Then he pauses and pushes his palms into his eyes, Kratos is not there. It is a sad realization; his father will not come pounding on the doors. He is on the road somewhere, unaware of what has happened at home.

With his fingers shaking, Atreus takes a moment to curse his own stupidity, and then another to gather the threads of his fear and shove them in a corner. He is going to Hel to bring back a mad man who tried to kill his own mother. He is going to Hel with some foreign goddess he does not know and Mimir, a head that cannot defend himself. Odd wags his tail in the corner. Atreus tries to hold together his fear as he is wrapped in more wool and fur than he’s ever even seen. His stomach turns, he skips breakfast. What did he get himself into?

Some sort of ceremony follows, there might be a parade with Odin at the head, but he is not sure. He thinks he hears music and self-congratulations. 

He comes back to himself at the Gates of Tyr’s temple. He notes the witch next to him, sweating in more furs than even him. Atreus take a bifrost, Odin says something that he does not catch, Circe answers. The dog stays in Asgard.

And then they are traveling.

Absently he hears Circe ask Mimir about how the temple works but mostly he’s just looking around. It really hits him when the reach Hel. The bridge is the same. The bridge is the same everywhere, but the cold jars him from his thoughts.

“The steward told me they would periodically leave supplies in the temple, if we need to come back.”

“There is that at least…”

The rest of what Mimir says falls away as Atreus turns to look around. What is he doing here? Where is father?

He jerks suddenly, the witch kneels in front of him with her hands on his shoulders shaking him.

“Small man, Atrreus.”

He takes a breath and notes that she has set Mimir on top of a broken Pillar so that they look eye to eye.

“Are you alright little brother?”

The witch stands and turns her back to him, “Obviously not,” she sighs, “small man, how old are you anyway.”

Still not entirely with himself he says, “Twelve.”

She takes a moment to count on her fingers muttering in Norse as she does so, “T-Twelve?”

And then she curses in whatever tongue she speaks, “I can’t take you on this journey. We are going into death.”

She would say more, but Mimir steps in, metaphorically, “But you can’t take him back. None of us can go back until Baldur is returned”

She pinches her lips and glares into the distance. Mimir looks in her direction, but keeps his mouth shut.

Coming to a decision, the witch kneels in front of Atreus again, he is slightly taller than her when she does this. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and then around, hugging him uncomfortably for a moment, and then she eases into it and he relaxes. It takes him a moment to realize he is crying and hugging her back.

She leans back, her hands on his shoulders and asks something he can’t understand, and then she repeats it, “What are we going to do?”

Atreus thinks back to the last time he was in Hel. He had his father, and then it was mostly a race to get out, but the largest monsters they faced were Hel reavers. It was surprisingly manageable. He is older now, stronger. Atreus knows he can do this, but can she? He can’t tell much about her in all those layers of clothing.

He takes a shaking breath, “We are going to find Baldur, and we are going to bring him back.”

The looks she gives him is a mix of respect and skepticism and stands. 

“Mimir,” she says with rolling r’s, “do you know where he might be?”

“I’m afraid not lass.”

She paces across the bridge, “We can’t just look around like headless birds. If I have something of this man’s I make a spell to find him.”

She paces more, Mimir watches.

“Can’t you just find him- with magic?”

“It does not work that way, magic needs direction. A thing to guide it. We have no thing, and I do not want to go back to get one, you?”

Atreus pauses, “What about something of his mother’s?”

“Blood?”

“Magic.”

She taps her fingers on the wall, “That might actually work? What is it?”

Atreus points to Mimir.

“The head, I should have known,” she says as she picks him up to inspect him.

“Be careful!”

She pokes him as she turns him over a few times in her hand.

“Yes, I recognize this magic.”

Atreus looks at her, “But Freya never did any magic in front of you.”

“Ah, but she did it before I got there. Magic always leaves a sign, one you can read if you know how to look,” as she speaks she inspects the back of Mimir’s head.

Mimir looks like he would be fighting if he had a body, “I am distinctly uncomfortable.”

“That’s how I knew that the old man had sworn that oath, the place smelled of the other witch’s magic. It was easy to tease out what she asked of him” she grinned.

Atreus remembered Odin’s fury at being caught between two oaths, to think that it had not been an accident.

Mimir, tired of being handled asks, “Will it work?”

“I think we will manage,” she sets the head down on the pillar and pinches something in front of his face. Then she pulls something out of the pocket of her cloak and ties the two together, snaps her finger and burns it. It lights red, and then yellow, and then dims to a tepid blue, but it floats in the air in front of them and seems to direct them to the edge of the bridge. 

The witch then goes to her pack, takes a little sack off from around her neck and goes back in the temple. When she returns she carries a small three-pronged fishing spear which she twists absently in her hand.

Atreus, ready now, picks up his bow. The witch takes Mimir, and they are off, following the little light. It takes them to the mouth of an empty canyon that goes down down down. The three companions eye each other wearily. Atreus knows what he is capable of, but he does not know what the witch can do. No doubt she has the same thoughts.

She says something in her language, pats all her pockets, “Okay. Let’s go.”

So they make their way into the dark, some light still filters down to them, but it becomes uncomfortable quickly. 

They meet a small group of Hel-reavers almost immediately. They can hear them before they see them, so the group prepares. Circe drops her pack and twirls the spear in her hands. It flashes briefly and then transforms into a two-pronged fishing spear with a blade connecting the two barbs. She uses the prongs to spear them, and once he watches as she thrusts the blade foreword, catches a reaver by the neck between the two prongs and decapitates him. Atreus gains some knowledge of what she is capable of there, and so begins to trust that-maybe- they can do this.

Circe is strong, not as strong as his father, but faster, and she has a tremendous amount of finesse. It is their third battle that they begin to recognize and trust each other’s strengths.

Atreus trails he behind the witch, having stayed behind to scavenge the bodies of the reavers, so he hears their voices disappear. Curious he reaches the two. They stand at the entrance of a cave, Circe stares into the pit holding Mimir next to her.

Seeing their trepidation, Atreus pulls out the birefrost and leads the way. It’s white glow blends in with the dim blue of their guide, but occasionally the guide will flash and lead them down one tunnel or up another. 

Pessimistically, Atreus wonders if the spell is broken. He hates the silence of the caves; he hates how they lose time, and he hates the scrapes he can hear in the dark. Though, they seem to have even left their enemies behind. There always seems to be something breathing in the dark behind his shoulder, a cool rhythmic breath on the back of his neck. 

They camp when they can’t walk anymore and spend a few unbearable hours in the darkness with one of them on watch, and then they repeat. Atreus does not know how often this happens. The air is cool and moist, he never feels dry and he never feels warm. 

And then the birefrost goes out.

For a moment nobody says anything, and then Mimir speaks into the darkness, “At least we have the guide.”

But in truth, it does not light up much more than a few inches in every direction.

Atreus takes a breath, and Circe says, “What was that anyway?”

Mimir says, “The birefrost? It’s a gate key of sorts, it ignites the bridge of light.”

Her voice surprises him from the dark, a note of fear in it, “So you are saying that it brought us here, and now we can’t get back.”

Mimir pauses, giving voice to all three of their concerns, “How are we going to get out of here?”

All three of them fidget in the dark as a fear grows in the space between them.

“Ok,” says Circe, “I am not good at this, but wait.”

She raises her hand, Atreus can see the tips of her fingers outlined by the light of their guide, but nothing else. 

Then her palm glows and her finger tips light up like tiny suns illuminating the cave around them. Atreus relaxes just a bit. 

Then the witch says, with some strain, “I don’t know how long I can hold this.”

But luckily the trails seem to go up rather than down. The air in the cave begins to cool. The three of then take a small break clustered around the light of their guide, before they begin again.

They are comfortable enough to begin to talk again. 

Atreus asks her about Sparta.

She scoffs, “I do not know much about Sparta, I am not a Greek after all.”

“Aren’t all the Olympians Greek?”

“First of all, I am not an Olympian, technically I am a titan. And can’t you ask your father these questions? It does not really feel like it’s my place.”

“He doesn’t tell me anything either,” and then, “What’s a titan? How are they different?” His voice sounds up at the end, enjoying the act of learning.

Catching his mood Circe seems to warm up to the conversation, “Really, they are the same. It’s a – how do you say the difference between parents and children?”

“Generation?” Mimir throws out.

“Yes, its generation, -”

“Generational,” interrupts Mimir.

“It’s ge-ne-rational, the older ge-ne-ration- the titans, were the parents of the Olympians, and their leader Kronos, was- how you say, a little crazy. He received a prophecy that said he would be thrown down by his children, so he took the throne he had stolen from his father, and little changed in the world, as Kronos was as cruel as his father- Uranus, had been. In response to his prophecy he swallowed each of his children whole as they were born from his sister-wife, Rhea. All but that last that is, Zeus.”

“My grandfather,” says Atreus, not sure he has spoken until he hears his voice echoing in the cave. 

“Yes, your grandfather was many things, but a better than his father was one of them, even if it wasn’t always by much. Anyway, he was raised in the quite of Crete, until he was old enough to be the cup bearer of his father. Whom he poisoned with a chalice too free his siblings. And once they were free they waged a war upon their predecessors, and usurped most of their places.”

Atreus, putting things together says, “But then my grandfather and your father should be enemies.”

“Few titans saw Kronos for what he was, save my father. Or maybe he peered into the future and saw the end of the conflict, either way, he fought for Zeus in the war, and kept his power and position.”

Atreus, his mind running would have asked more, but the witch cut him off.

“Tell me about this Freya. It is better to learn about the gods of his realm no?”

“Freya is…” but Atreus does not really know what to say about her. Once he would have praised her, but recently he’s changed his mind.

Mimir, from the witch’s belt, seems to be at a similar loss for words, until he clears his throat, “Well, she used to have a chariot drawn by cats.”

“Cats- what? is that all you can say me?”

“I think you mean ‘Tell you’, and yes.”

Circe reaches behind her and flicks the head for his sass. She shakes a bit, and Atreus can see sweat gather on her temple. But they find relief soon, in the distance they can see light. Circe lets the sunlight drop, and they navigate the last mile in the dark.

All three tumble out into air, they don’t care that its cold, they only want to breath fresh air. They are higher than when they started, in a mountain range. Across from them is a clearing and farther, a bridge with a tall woman in fish-scale mail guarding it.

Circe squints at her, and then leans back panting, “Who is that?”

Atreus, holding Mimir now lifts the head up, “I can’t see, lift me up… That’s not good, It’s Modgud. A great guardian, sent here by Odin to guard the bridge Gjallarbrú over the river Gjoll. She is fierce in battle and wields her hammer with grace.”

Atreus draws his bow.

“Wait, Atreus, just wait,” Circe stands slowly and stretches out, “If we fight, we have to wait, I need a rest.”

“But we can surprise her now.”

“We can, but I am not even sure we have to do battle. Let’s just see what she wants.”

Reluctantly Atreus puts his bow back and they make their way forward.

“Little brother, she is a Jotun,” at Circe’s look of confusion he says, “A giant, another race from the nine realms.”

But Atreus pays them no mind, his mind races at the implications, another giant, when all he knew of them were their mountain sized bones tossed about a range smaller than they were, “What?”

Atreus feels his heart stop, and then wonders as it falls lower. If he had rushed into battle, they might have killed her, the first living giant he has found outside his mother, dead, because of him. He would be no better than- than Thor! Atreus takes a seat to gather his thoughts. Circe pauses, noticing his decent into… what-ever it is he is feeling, but says nothing, letting him come back to himself on his own. He takes a few breaths and nods. When they begin to move again, his stomach still turns.

Modgud sees them as soon as they begin their decent from the cave. She lifts her hammer from the ground and rests it onto her shoulder. As they approach Atreus notes her wide shoulders and muscular torso and the wide spread of her feet. He likes the look of her, her height, collected energy, but he really wants to talk to her.

The giantess assesses them. One look seems to let her take it all in. Her keen blue eyes look first to Circe and then to Atreus, he has to blink back tears.

“State your names and business,” and somehow she manages to sound cheerful and efficient all at the same time.

Atreus pulls his thoughts back to himself and frowns, he doubts that they can say anything about retrieving a dead aesir without having to finish the claim with a fight. And as much as he enjoys testing his metal against enemies, he will not slay the only other giant he has ever knowingly met. 

As he fidgets, the witch reaches behind him for Mimir. The head tries to say something, but Atreus does not hear it over the strangest cracking sound, whatever Circe does, at the very least she silences the body-less god.

Circe’s voice breaks the silence, accented but clear “We are here searching for Freya’s Cats. We have the one,” and here Atreus has to hide his confusion as Circe lifts up a long, fat, blue and furious tabby cat, “but we seem to have misplaced the other.”

The giantess looks at them skeptically, “And you think this cat found its way to Hel?”

“Well yes, surely you have heard of Freya’s cats?”

The giantess shrugs, and places one hand underneath her plump lips and puckers them, then she smiles, “At one point I must have, because they sound familiar.”

Circe smiles too, “Allow us to refresh you,” at which point she nudges Atreus with her elbow and gives him a very decisive, tell-this-lady-about-these-cats sort of look.

Atreus coughs a little and then smiles, frustrated with the witch because all he really knows about them is that they pull Freya’s chariot. If Mimir where here he might be able to spin a tale the giantess would believe, but going by the furiously spinning golden eyes in the Cat’s head, the cat is Mimir. Atreus has to resist the urge to slap his forehead. She might be worse than father.

What to say, “They were a gift to her, from…”

“The big red one! Thor!”

That got the giantesses attention, “Thor gave Freya cats?”

Circe nods not realizing that Thor is the last person who would give anybody anything other than a brutal death.

“It scratched him, so he gave them to Freya hoping one would do the same to her,” Atreus recovers.

Modgud thinks about it, “And you think the cat is here?”

“Freya’s magic led us here,” gestures Circe to the light.

The giantess nods, “That does seem to have Freya’s magic in site.”

And then, “Wait wait wait” Modgud puts a hand up, “All of this is well in good. But I believe I asked for your names first. And then you can get to your business.”

Atreus bobs his head, “I am called Atreus, and the lady is Circe.”

Modgud pauses in thought, and then makes her mind, “You may pass little Jotun.”

Atreus trips over his feet and looks at her again. His heart and stomach switch places again. He wants to stay and talk, but they have no time. Atreus finds himself even more irritated by Baldur than before.

He can’t give the craftsmanship of the bridge the attention it deserves. The roof of the bridge is shingled in gold and covered with skeleton Motifs, and one odd repeated woman who is split in half, one side beautiful, the other decayed. That is what he takes away. The bridge below them screams, it takes him longer than he would like for them to cross. They need to move forward, but he wants to go back.

On the other side and out of sight Circe gives the cat a shake and turns it back into a head.

Spitting out fur and outraged Mimir says, “Now I remember where I’ve heard your name before. You were banished to an Island in the Mediterranean and spent your time turning men into swine.”

For a moment her mien registers only fury, but then “Yes, well, luckily for us I can also turn men into cats,” she shrugs it off, “come, we are closer.”

The light above them looks brighter and it tugs them across a scree field, and then up the side of a cliff. Mimir and the witch appear to come to a truce.

“Hm, interesting,” Circe pauses on top of a boulder.

“What?”

“When was the last time we had to kill anything?”

Atreus tries to think, “Before we entered the cave.”

She jumps down and toes a bit of gouge in the bedrock, before moving on.

They know they are close when their guide flashes brightly and flies foreword. Atreus runs to keep up, but skids to a stop when the light flashes down a pit. Circe catches him before he can tumble down and they both watch as it races down and smacks the furious god of light right in the middle of the forehead.

They shimmy behind the cover a rock fall as Circe asks, “Is that him?”

Atreus peaks over. Nothing has changed, Baldur wears the same cloths, his eyes- still bloodshot, even his neck juts out at an odd angle, a souvenir from his fight with father.

“Yes, that’s him,” Atreus whispers back. 

Circe peaks over too and curses, “Look at that wound. Ugh” she swats the air in disgust, “this is going to be harder than I thought,” she pauses and pulls something out of her pocket.

A rock hits the wall above them, they both quiet.

“Come out come out wherever you are,” another rock breaks against the side of the mountain, this one bigger.

Baldur shouts something unintelligible and then, “I can hear you!”

Circe swears in response, “You did not tell me he was mad.”

“What difference does it make?”

“At its most basic the spell works like this: he must leave of his own free will. But like this!” She raises one finger, “We might not be able to heal him because he won’t let us or,” she raises her second, “He might not want to leave.”

“Or both,” says Mimir from behind her.

“Or both,” she agrees.

“I’m going to be honest with you sister, it’s probably going to be both.”

A boulder shatters next to them, spilling rock-dust onto their shoulders. Atreus can only wonder what they have gotten themselves into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like mythology. The war between the gods and the titans is called the Titanomachy. It’s fun stuff, you can look it up. 
> 
> Freya also did apparently drive a chariot drawn by cats, and those cats were given to her by Thor. I do not, however, know much about the origins of that myth. It might be younger than other stories about Freya, one source said early turn of the (last) century. 
> 
> There are other myths about Circe, but she is best known from the Odyssey. In the Odyssey, she is Odysseus' lover and turns him men into pigs, that will come up again later in the series.
> 
> Modgud guards the bridge Gjallarbrú which crosses the river of screams (Gjoll). I liked the idea of Atreus meeting another giant. 
> 
> As always, please review. Reviews are very motivating.


	5. Do we really have to bring him back?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our wayward heroes finally meet Baldur, cat-nap him, and convince him to leave hell.

Baldur paces around his pit, his gait lists to the left and every now and then his whole body tenses, “How long are you going to keep me waiting?”

Behind the rock pile Atreus shrugs at Circe. She returns the shrug, If Mimir could shrug he would shrug.

“Any ideas?”

Mimir answers, “He was married at one point, maybe we can appeal to that side of him?”

“He does not seem so- close to his feelings.”

“You mean sentimental… probably not.”

“Ah yes, sen-ti-men-tal,” Circe says, mimicking the head.

A sizable boulder crashes to the left of their hiding spot, “I can hear you whispering.”

Skeptical, Atreus says, “We could just tell him the truth.”

Mimir clears his throat, “Aye little brother, that probably is the best idea, but it should not be you that says it,” the head looks at Circe.

She raises both her hands and rolls her eyes to the sky and stands, “Okay. You find a way to unchain him.”

“Wait!” says the head, but she is already gone, “He is not too fond of… witchcraft. Do you think she heard me?”

Circe steps out of the relative safety of the wall, “You! Greetings!”

Baldur stands in the pit with a boulder the size of a small cow readied for a toss, his head lulls to the side, his eyes are red and he looks like he hasn’t bathed in years. He has collars of spelled iron about his left ankle and his neck.

The witch pauses, trying to figure out what to say, but nothing comes to mind and the silence quickly becomes awkward.

Confused, Baldur puts the boulder down, “Who are you?”

She smiles at the questions, something she can answer!

“My name is Circe, I am here at the behest of your parents to liberate you of these bonds.”

The god in the pit shrugs his shoulders, spreads his arms out and turns, “What makes you think I want to leave.”

Before she can think better of it she steps towards the pit and falls into it. 

“Why wouldn’t you?”

He laughs, and she winces. She can hear that his laugh is full of all of his anger and despair.

“Oh yes, nothing says life like this.” He points to his sloppy neck.

Circe feels the breaking bonds, one snap followed quickly by another. Atreus finding the links, good.

“Where are your guards?” She asks instead.

When the third ward falls they both turn towards where chains meet, a cruel box in a shape that means something to somebody, but not to her. Circe grabs the chain, heaves the box off the ground and throws into the pit wall opposite them.

Then she says, “I can heal you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Circe’s brows draw together and she tilts her head and approaches him, palms open.

“Witchcraft.” His kick sends her flying in the same wall she broke his chains on.

“No lass, don’t tell him that,” but, obviously, it’s too late.

She rolls out of the way of his punch and puts some distance between them. On his next kick she bends her knees, lowers her shoulders and turns around. When she catches his leg she tilts her shoulder forward and uses his momentum to send him flying. She then summons her spear and throws it at him. He swats it out of the way, and leaps for her again. 

“Mimir, I should have known you were behind this. Who else do you have with you? Vidar, Come to gloat? Thor?”

He is fast, but his wounds make him sloppy. When he punches, she shifts his balance and flips him over her hip. 

An arrow finds the other gods right bicep, “Leave her alone!”

“You’re here! Where’s you oaf of father?” Baldur says this as he yanks the arrow out.

“Stop it, we are not trying to kill him! We are trying to bring him back.”

Laughter meets her comment. And then another punch, which she ducks.

Trying to calm him, Circe tries, “What about your wife!”

“What about my wife, what is there to miss in me?” He waves an arm up and down his body, showing himself off. Circe has to agree, not pretty.

The tattoos on his chest glow and then flicker out as he tries and fails to use his light, distracted Circe barely has time to bat the boulder that he throws her away. He strikes immediately after, and it sends her crashing to the ground. 

Picking herself up she watches as he trips over himself on his next blow. Circe can only wince at it and even Baldur appears embarrassed by his clumsiness.

Circe stops and puts her hands up.

“You might be better able to kill us if you let me heal you.”

He scoffs through his bloody teeth, lifts both his arms from his sides and spins once slowly, “Yes, but then I’m giving you exactly what you want, aren’t I.”

Shocked, Circe really looks at him, “Figured that out all on your own did you?”

He takes another swing.

Circe scrambles up a wall and out of the way, “I thought your madness would make you stupid.”

He can only laugh, “You have no idea what it’s made me.”

“Oh it has made you stupid, I just had to reevaluate how intelligent you were before all this,” she waves her arm at him and taps her head.

Balder freezes and shouts something incoherent, and in a fit of rage, takes down the wall she stands on.

From the corner of her eye she sees Atreus ready an arrow. Unwilling to render Baldur any more dead, Circe catches the arrow and immediately drops it as electricity numbs her arm, luckily some of the energy seems to affect the other combatant. 

However, he recovers first.

Baldur takes her by the throat and lifts her up off the ground. Quickly, and not without panic, Circe wraps both her hands around his wrist, hooks one leg around his arm, and shift her body weight. She pulls them both to the ground. He lets go, but not before she grabs his throat causing him to cry out in pain. 

Then she reaches for her power and winces.

“I am sorry; my healing has never been easy.”

Her hand tightens around his throat and as she knits his nerves back together he screams and writhes, trying to pull away. But she feels his vertebra twist back into place, just as she feels the sunlight burn its way through her arm and up her throat. 

When it’s done she tries to clear and throat and finds she can’t. Neither move, she for dizziness, and he from a white-hot haze of pain.

When she can, Circe removes her hand and leans over him, checking for damage. Proud, she leans back. Baldur’s hands claw their way up and he blinks back his shock when he feels the smooth column of his neck. Atreus slides down into the pit to join them. Tired, Circe coughs once into her closed fist and wrinkles her nose, then takes one breath, and then two. Moving the stand, she coughs again, and ends up spitting blood all over Baldur’s face.

Her brows lift, and her mouth twists, “I… I’m sorry,” she reaches as if to wipe the blood off his face and then notices it streak of blood across her palm and recoils.

Atreus takes his bow and points it at Baldur, “What did he do?”

Baldur just sits up and rocks back and forth rubbing absently at the flecks of congealed blood-and-spit drying on his face. 

He no longer wants to fight, aside from the slight burn he has not felt better since before he died, and even that fades away as he rubs at his neck. Besides, watching an opponent cough blood on you tends to take the entertainment out of the fight. He waves them both away with his left hand and turns his back.

“Nothing,” Circe stands and staggers to the other side of the pit.

“Lass has this always happened?”

Circe laughs, but her voice kicks up at the end and Atreus only wants to give her a hug, “You mean do I –uh bleed when I try to heal? No, it’s recent.”

Baldur calls up to them from the pit, his hand rubs his neck absently before flashing his hands between them “Witch, what else do you have to do?”

Exasperated and tired Circe leans against a boulder and replies, “A spell, some blood, some tears and then” she waves her hands and wiggles her fingers, “you are free.”

Atreus stands between them, but steps aside reluctantly as Baldur approaches. Opposite him, Circe stands with her left arm across over her chest and her right elbow resting on the back of her hand. Baldur reaches and clasps her right forearm in his own, her own bloody palm clatters against his elbow. 

The stain on his skin bothers her more than it bothers him.

He eyes her, and his gaze flashes bright blue, “Okay.”

“Atreus, I need some blood, and a tear.”

“A tear? Why?” he says as confusion writes itself across his face.

“It represent remorse and sadness, regret at the act.”

A frown twists the scars on his cheek, and he glares up a Baldur, “But what if I don’t regret it?”

As the boy says this Baldur looks down on him and lets out a sharp laugh, “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel.”

Circe puts her bloodless palm on the boy’s shoulder to draw his attention back, “It’s just a symbol. All I need is the tear, not the feeling… I also have to cry fake tears for this one.”

Atreus takes his dagger and slits his palm and then goes to a corner with Mimir to try and make himself cry. Circe takes a swig of water, sloshes it around her mouth and spits it out. Then she takes her dagger, grasps the dead god’s forearm and cuts the middle of the patch of skin where her own blood dries. Watching it mingle makes her nauseous, Circe had never liked Blood magic. 

She then sits down in a spot of light and begins the arduous task of making herself cry. Atreus comes back with his bleeding palm and dry eyes.

“No luck then?” 

“Not really,” he sits down next to her.

Circe leans back, exhausted, “Any sad stories?”

Mimir perks up, an empty glint in his mechanical eyes, “I have one. It’s starts in Asgard with a nightmare. The goddess Freya dreamed that her son Baldur would have a meaningless death, and she loved him above all else, for she had nothing else in that empty place called Asgard. So she scoured the nine realms for a solution and made a spell that would keep him from harm. So she cast a the most powerful piece of magic she had ever made, and kept anything from hurting him. But such powerful spells always have side effects, and Baldur felt nary a thing after that.”

Above her Baldur has stopped breathing, and he opens and closes his fists. Atreus creeps between her and Baldur once more, and while Circe is flattered by the attempt, she prefers to fight for herself.

“That is not a sad story head, that is a cruel one. And it does not make me cry, but rather lights an anger in my heart,” she regards Mimir, “I did not think you were so…”

“Are you looking for petty, lass?”

“Does petty mean meaningless and cruel?”

“More or less.”

“Yes, then, I did not think you were so petty. And I did not think the other witch so shortsighted, but…” at a loss for words she shrugs, she is too tired to be angry. 

Atreus glances between the head and the witch, but nobody says anything. Mimir, for his part, does recognize his cruelty, though he can’t bring himself to regret it. Atreus’ mind flies to his father, wondering where he is, and what he might be doing.

Circe closes her eyes and thinks back, and then opens them, “I have a story.” She inhales, “Once, not so long ago I was married.”

Mimir interjects, “I didna think you were the type,” to which she just rolls her eyes.

“Once, not so long ago I was married,” she begins again with more force, “I had just gotten freedom from that fucking island and had found a Prince of Ithaca to travel the sea-in-the-middle with. We went to Egypt, and Anatolia and many places besides on a boat we made. He would volunteer his arms and back and work, and I would do the simple witchcraft of healing. And at night we would…” she trails off, glancing at Atreus, and coughs, “and we sailed for many years. And it was enjoyable,” she is crying now -damnit.

“But I don’t understand,” says Atreus, “How is that a sad story?”

“Because he died-,” her voice cracks as she says this.

She sniffles loudly and smears the tears off her face.

“Oh,” Atreus’ voice falls to a lower cadence, “that’s how I feel about mom. She was the one who taught me how to hunt you know. One time…” Atreus pauses with a waver in his voice, “I chased a stag into the forest and slipped and hurt my ankle,” Atreus rubs it without thinking, “I was afraid, because I did not think that she had seen where I went. But she found me and carried me home.”

He had fallen asleep in her arms that night, and woke up between his parents.

“I think we have what we need,” he hears Circe say from a great distance. She wipes some of the tears off his cheeks and mixes it with the blood from his palm, adds them with her own tears and returns to Baldur, frozen and empty in the face of all of the emotion.

Baldur tries to pull away when she grasps his forearm, but she does not let him. Instead she relaxes and closes her eyes. Atreus can’t see anything overt, but Baldur flinches and yanks his arm away. Panting he says nothing.

“It’s done. You are alive again.”

“That’s it? No shouting, not herbs, no light?” He leans forward into her space and waggles his fingers.

“It is done.”

And that is that. They spend the rest of the day retracing their steps to the bridge over the wailing river. It takes twice the time, the party unused to its new configuration.

By the time Circe sees the golden slates of the bridge she wonders if she should just push Baldur off it. In fact, she is surprised Atreus had not already tried (but alas, none of them are so lucky). The two do not get along. 

Where is the giant? Circe scans the bridge. And then she jumps, Baldur’s voice rushes into her ear far too close for comfort, “What are you looking for?”

She shushes him. There she is.

“We are just going to walk across are we? Is that the plan? I don’t like killing giants the way my brother does you know.”

Atreus glares at the other man, but Circe just rolls her eyes, “We have an expression where I come from. It’s better to ask permission than forgiveness.”

“Lass, I think you have it turned around.”

“Do I? yes, I believe you are right,” and she puts her hands on either side of Baldur’s rib cage and lifts. When she turns him into a cat she has him grasped underneath his arms, his claws pointed out as he furiously bats the air. With little ado, she shoves the god-turned-cat into Atreus sack.

“Head, you are next.”

“I know, and I can’t even get away.”

They go back the way they came. Modgud asks about their mission as they return, they pull out Baldur the cat. 

“He’s very badly behaved isn’t he?” Circe says conversationally.

Modgud eyes the animal skeptically, her blue eyes precise, “Gelding generally solves those problems.”  
“Modgud, that is a bit extreme don’t ya think.”

Atreus can feel Mimir-the-cat tense in his arms, Baldur the cat has frozen, and glares at the giantess suspiciously. 

Confused, Atreus asks, “What does gelding mean?”

Modgud answers, “What do you know of husbandry boy?”

He shrugs, “Not much.”

“That is your first problem,” Modgud clears he through in the way of a poet, “before I was cursed to guard this bridge by Odin,” the giantess flips her magnificent head of blond hair and glares at the sky at the Aesir’s name, “I helped my father on his farm. He had the best cows in Jotunheim- you know.”

Circe, seeing a tangent tries to interrupt, “We really should-”

“His valley stretched from one horizon to the next, and it was at the feet of the mountains of the hand, so it was considered to be close to holy ground. The grass was green and sweet, and the wind blew from the North in the summer and from the south in the winter.”

Atreus, interested in the homeland of his mother, let’s the giantess go on, Circe impatient, does not.

“You were saying something about husbandry?”

Irritated at being cut off mid-tale, the giantess glares at the smaller goddess, “Was I? I suppose I was. In order to have the best livestock, you have to select which animals can breed, and which cannot. You select desirable traits and breed them together until you have the best animals.”

Circe tries to pull them away, but Atreus waves her off, curious about the jotun art of animal-husbandry, “But what is gelding?”

Amused, Modgud pats Atreus’ head, he has to steady his knees to keep from falling over, “In order to keep refine the gene pool you remove the manhood of the animals you don’t want breeding.”

“Remove the manhood…” Atreus tries to wrap his mind around it, and finds he does not like the idea at all.

“For instance,” Modgud goes on, not aware of Atreus’ dawning horror, “That one,” she points to Mimir-the-cat, “is scrawny, but has a big head,” in response Mimir’s tale wraps around his leg, “and that one,” she points to Baldur-the-cat, “has a terrible temper.”

Baldur just hisses and retreats further into the safety of Atreus’ backpack. Circe freezes and stares back in the direction that they came from, eyes narrowed, back straight.

“Enlightening,” Circe cuts Modgud off before she can say anything more, “I have a whole new vocabulary. Husbandry! Livestock! Words I never knew I wanted to know, but alas, we must not keep Freya waiting.”

Circe grabs Atreus’ shoulder, steers him around and herds him rapidly across the bridge and towards the cave. A few minutes after they are out of view, Atreus whips around at the sound of a furious roar. They hustle into the safety of the cave, and Circe returns both deities to the bodies.

“A cat!” Baldur says upon his return to bipedalism, his temper causes a semi-sphere of darkness around them to brighten.

“Big head! Small body?” and outraged Mimir exclaims.

“Gelding…” Atreus shivers inspite of himself.

“Would you all keep quite!” Whispers an angry Circe, “or I will turn you all to cats.” 

Outside of the cave, gargantuan footsteps shake the earth around them. Three voices exchange a few words, though Atreus can make sense of nothing.

Atreus moves to stand next to Circe, who looks around. Atreus can feel the thunderous footsteps vibrate in his lungs as they approach the entrance to the cave. Circe looks at Baldur, whose fury still roils through his tattoos. She slaps his arm, “Turn off!”

He glares, but ultimately complies, and none too soon.

The light from the entrance of the cave dims as the footsteps get nearer, Atreus hides behind a great stone pillar, Baldur at the next one over, while Circe appears to disappear. Then Atreus has to inhale slowly as a great eye peers into the leery darkness of the cave. Then the eye moves, and two finger pry their way in, scraping along the walls.

“They went this way,” one voice says.

“That is what I told you,” Modgud replies.

Another says, “They will be making their way to the temple of Tyr.”

“That is also what I said.”

“We would not be having this problem is you had done your job Modgud.”

“Or you yours you oaf. I told you anyway, the small-Aesir must be somewhere else. The only ones to pass were a foreigner and a- uh- a little god.”  
“He has to be near, there is only one path for him, and he’s escaped his cage.”

The three pause, the shuffling footsteps large enough to shake the stalagmites in the cave. After the angry silence, the first voice says to the second, “Guard this entrance then, Modgud with me” while two of the footsteps rumble away.

Atreus slinks towards the mouth of the cave, only to recoil with his hands over his nose and mouth. Whatever is out there smells terrible. Behind him he can hear Mimir gagging. Little piece of rock shower down upon them, and Atreus tries to stifle a sneeze. Then something yanks him by his elbow and pulls him behind a pillar, the light from the mouth of the cave flips out of existence as a bulk blocks it.

Next to him Baldur glares at what must be one of his gate keepers and absently releases the hold he has on Atreus’ elbow. Circe blinks into existence next to him and Atreus swallows a shout. She puts her finger to her lips and points down into the bowls of the tunnel. 

They scramble in the dark for the first few hours so as not to alert the guardian at the mouth of the tunnel. Atreus has never been afraid of the dark, but the silent cloying darkness that he swallows puts a little bit of fear in his belly. He has bruised his shin on more than one object in the dark, and his toe throbs in his boot.

“Can we… maybe get a light?”

Circe stops and he bumps into her, “Yes, a moment.”

Atreus takes a step back as the cave flickers into existence, the buttery light floats around them warming them with its gentle heat. And then the light flashes, the heat sweeps up his arms, and then it fades. 

In the darkness Baldur laughs, “What are you doing?”

The blue light that takes its place is cooler and colder, but its radius is firm and it illuminates what’s around them.

From her position leaning against the wall Circe scoffs, “Well you could have done that sooner.”

Baldur rolls his shoulders, and he does it the light around them flashes and moves “I didn’t need it.”

Atreus feels his skin heat up in anger.

“It’s fine if we have the cave lit up, but here is the real problem,” she holds up their empty birefrost, “We can’t go nowhere, not without this.”

Baldur’s eyes flash, “It’s empty?”

Circe shrugs, “Is that what it means?”

Atreus answers, “We didn’t know how much it had left.”

“So you came into hel with an empty birefrost?”

Circe says, “There must be another way out.”

Nervous, Atreus tries to think back, “I don’t remember any of the stories saying so, but maybe.”

“So you can heal me, but we call get trapped on this side of Hel?” Baldur says as he paces.

“Yes!” Circe shouts, tired of his preoccupation, nerves to frayed to tiptoe around him.

“What would you know of our ways,” He waves her off and turns to Atreus, “But you! You should know better.”

“There might be a way,” Mimir’s voice cuts through their growing hysteria. 

“Go on head.”

“Your brother told me a story once. How he was wondering through the nine realms and he decided he needed to see Hel for himself.”

Baldur’s eyes narrow, “You’re talking about Hodr.”

“Hodr is the only son of Odin who would stroll through hel for curiosity,” Mimir answers, and then begins again in his story telling voice, unintentionally Atreus begins to anticipate the tale, “He wanted to meet the Giantess Modgud and fell in love with her golden voice. But Modgud, as you know, was not one to be won, so she set before him a great task.”

Mimir pitches his voice up for the effect, “ ‘Get me a feather of one of the three birds of Ragnorak.’ And so Hodr wandered Helheim for many years trying to find this bird, made all the harder by his blindness. But his finally spoke to a dilapidated crone who gave him directions. He made his way to the great bird’s nest and-”

“Did he get the feather,” asks Atreus, impatient for the end.

“No,” Baldur answers with his arms crossed, “the bird chased him off and he dropped his birefrost by its nest. He spent a year in Helheim while I tracked him through the nine realms. That’s your solution head? Steal from one of the cocks that crow for Ragnorak?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

They have gathered in the middle of the tunnel and unintentionally formed a triangle, with Atreus and Mimir (facing backwards) in the opposite direction that they have come.

“No,” answers Circe, “We have no better idea. But we have a long way to go before we make a decision.”

She points down the path and Atreus tries to remember how long it took them to travel through it, she continues, “I just hope one of you knows how to get there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some Greek myths Circe had a son by Odysseus name Telegonous. Telegonous killed his father with the barb of a stingray and took his brother, Telemacos, and Penelope, Odysseus’ wife back to Aiaia (the Island where Circe was banished). Circe then turned both Telemacos and Penelope into gods. Penelope married Telegonous, and Circe married Telemacos. In this story only part of this happens, namely, she does not turn Telemacos or Penelope into gods.
> 
> In Norse Mythology Hod (or Hodr) is Baldur’s twin brother and personifies darkness and the winter months. He is also the deity that Loki tricks into shooting the mistletoe arrow at Baldur, causing his brother’s death and ultimately ragnorak. Odin, in response, has a child named Vali who grows very quickly and strangles his brother Hod to death.
> 
> Also, I have a request. I really like Greek and roman mythology, and am somewhat aware of Etruscan mythology. However, I don’t know much about other cultures. So if you guys have any creatures you would like to see show up in any of the rest of these chapters, please give me their name and a little bit about what they are. I will see if they fit into the plot that I have planned.


End file.
